


Prodigal son

by chanderson



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Character Death, Drug Use, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Post-Skyfall, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:16:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23305180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chanderson/pseuds/chanderson
Summary: After M's death, Bond goes to the only place he knows is safe.
Relationships: James Bond & M | Olivia Mansfield, James Bond/Q
Comments: 7
Kudos: 91





	Prodigal son

**Author's Note:**

> So much angst. 
> 
> The character death tag applies to M, don't worry.
> 
> Lots of italics and ellipses in this one.
> 
> Un-beta'd so all mistakes are my own.

As soon as Q steps foot in his flat after the Skyfall… catastrophe? ( _Fuck up,_ his brain supplies), he knows someone is in his home. Maybe it’s a gut feeling, the way the hair raises up on his neck, or maybe it’s just the tell-tale bottle of Macallan whiskey sitting half empty on his kitchen counter. 007’s poison of choice.

What _really_ makes Q’s stomach churn, though, is the squat orange pill bottle thoughtlessly tipped over next to the whiskey, two little white pills shining brightly in the dark. Q purses his lips and goes to investigate, shining his phone flashlight on the bottle. Vicodin 10 mg. 

“007?” Q calls out as he ventures farther into his flat, unsure of what exactly he’s going to find. His cats, Vivaldi — Viv, for short — and Amadeus, run up to rub against and weave through his legs. He drops to his knees to give them a little love and asks Viv, stupidly, “have you seen 007?” 

She just lazily blinks at him with her big, green eyes before growing bored and flopping down on the rug. Q sighs and stands back up, joints protesting.

Then he smells it — just a whiff of cigarette smoke, and he knows exactly where Bond is. 

“Took you long enough,” Bond murmurs with a smirk as soon as Q pushes the balcony door open. The agent is sitting on the cold concrete, rather than in Q’s patio furniture, his back resting against the wall. One leg is stretched comfortably in front of him, the other bent at the knee and drawn close to his chest. His right arm is slung across the knee, and he pauses every few seconds to bring the cigarette to his mouth. A tumbler of whiskey is next to his elbow, honey-gold in the moonlight. 

“How many cigarettes is that?” Q asks with a huff. Bond shrugs one shoulder and flicks the butt away. Q traces its lazy arc until it drops into the street below. 

“Don’t know.” Bond’s voice is a slow, drunken drawl. His eyes, when he finally slides them over to take inventory of Q, are glazed over, still red around the edges. 

Q’s heard all the gossip already from the minions who somehow find the time to fraternize with Medical. The way they found Bond bowed over her, sobbing. The way one medic had to bodily drag M’s body out of his death grip. The wounded sound he made when they did. 

Q is assuming Bond hasn’t been debriefed yet, and based on the grayish pallor of his skin, Q would have to guess that Bond skipped out on medical, too. 

“It’s freezing out here,” Q finally says. “Come inside.” 

“You’re cross with me,” Bond says as he levels himself into a standing position with a grunt, swaying on his feet. 

“You’re drunk... and high,” Q mutters as he  opens the patio door jerkily, realizing that _yes_ he is angry with Bond. Though he doesn’t quite know why. 

The agent shuffles unsteadily past him and drops down onto the couch in a heap. 

“You want’a drink?” Bond jerks his head in the direction of the kitchen. “Opened one of my best bottles for this occasion.” 

“No thank you,” Q says, voice clipped. He sits at the opposite end of the couch and regards Bond warily. The double-oh stinks of booze, cigarette smoke, stale sweat, gun powder, and lake water. Not the most pleasant combination. 

“Yer loss,” Bond slurs as he stands and stumbles into the kitchen to pour himself another glass. He’s using Q’s nice crystal. Q just grits his teeth and keeps his mouth shut, until he hears the pill bottle rattle. That sends him jumping up and marching into the kitchen. 

“What’re you doing?!” Q snaps and reaches for the bottle clutched in Bond’s fist. Normally, 007 would be too quick for Q, but his movements right now are glacial, and Q is able to tear the bottle from his grasp. Bond basically _pouts_ and drains half the glass of whiskey in response. 

“Well, I was trying to take some more medication for my various injuries, but I guess now I’m jus’ havin’ a drink,” Bond growls. Q scowls. Bullshit. A quick squint at the bottle lets him know it isn’t even prescribed to Bond, or from MI6. 

“You’re going to fuck yourself up mixing pills and alcohol. Is that what you want?” Q asks, voice shockingly loud in the small space. But it doesn’t faze Bond. He just shrugs and ambles back over to the couch. 

“I’ve done it before, Q. I’m an old man, remember?” he asks snidely once he’s back on the couch, knuckles white around the fresh whiskey in his hand. Q snorts and shoves what’s left of the pills into his pocket. 

“Yes, and self medication has always worked out so spectacularly for you in the past, if I remember reading your file correctly,” Q shoots back. Then, narrowing his eyes, “what would _she_ think?” 

Bond makes a hard sound in his throat and recoils, eyes flashing angrily. He sets the glass down so hard Q thinks the crystal is going to break, and twists in his seat, mouth curling dangerously — attractively. 

“You don’t know _shit_ about her,” he snarls. “So don’t act like you do. You were a… a _blip_ on her radar. I was — I was like her—”

“Son?” Q finishes for him, regretting the word as soon as he says it. Bond grabs the glass of whiskey, throws it at the wall, and stands all in one movement. 

Q tries and fails to cover up his wince as the crystal shatters against the wall. It just eggs Bond on. 

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” Bondgrowls threateningly as he looms over Q, backlit by the lights of the city blinking like stars through the window behind him. Q holds his hands up and nods, conceding. 

“I’m sorry, 007, you’re right,” Q says, even though he _knows_ it’s what Bond was thinking. He was just too afraid to complete the thought aloud. Q has no such reservations. 

Every double-oh is loyal to something: Queen and Country, themselves, the others around them. But Bond? Bond was loyal to M and M alone. 

“I don’t even know why I came here,” Bond mutters as he disappears back into the kitchen to fix himself another glass. When he returns, Q raises an eyebrow and folds his hands in his lap. 

“Why _did_ you come here, 007? I’m assuming you found out where I live through one of the minions.” 

Bond hazards a quick smirk and shrugs. 

“Maybe.” Then, growing more serious, “I thought it would be… quiet here.” 

“Quiet?” 

Bond stares at the whiskey in his glass, turning it in the low light of the room, before sighing softly. 

“When I’m alone there are sometimes just… too many thoughts in my head. I thought being here would make them a little quieter.” He takes a long sip of the whiskey then, Adam’s apple bobbing. “I needed not to think about it— her,” he bites out. 

Q nods. It’s the most he’s ever heard James Bond talk, aside from quips and innuendos over Comms during a mission. It fills Q with a certain reckless thrill. 

“Well,” he starts awkwardly, clearing his throat. “You’re always welcome here… if you need a quiet place to go.” 

Bond looks over at him with something akin to fondness before his face, already haggard, suddenly goes three shades paler. 

Q swears under his breath and grabs Bond’s arm, grunting and pulling him into a standing position. “Bathroom, now,” Q says urgently as he pushes Bond forward. 

Together they stumble into Q’s tiny bathroom, both his hands on Bond’s back, keeping him steady. He doesn’t step back until Bond is safely knelt in front of the toilet getting disgustingly, violently ill. 

Q doesn’t know quite what to do with himself, so he settles on wetting a washcloth and placing it on the back of Bond’s neck. “I, uh, I’ll just leave you to it then,” he says awkwardly as he backs up toward the door. Bond just spits into the toilet and hangs his head, pulling in deep gasps of air. 

“That would be best, Quartermaster,” he says before gagging and huddling back over the toilet. Q winces and stumbles over his feet on the way out. 

He settles on first cleaning up the shattered remnants of his glass before sitting on the couch with a pair of headphones on in an attempt to give 007 some privacy. 

Bond finally emerges from the bathroom nearly a half hour later, face still much too pale. His black t-shirt is balled in his fist, and Q swallows, trying not to be too obvious as he rakes his eyes over Bond’s bare chest. 

“You feeling better?” Q asks as nonchalantly as possible, though it still comes out sounding pinched and strained. Bond shrugs and settles back down on the couch, grabbing a throw pillow and hugging it to his chest. He lets his chin lazily drop down as his eyes flicker closed. 

“A little.” He sighs through his nose and squeezes the pillow tighter, muscles rippling under tanned skin. “Sorry about all… that. I cleaned up for you.” 

“Oh you didn’t have to do that,” Q says lightly with forced casualness. Bond just snorts and, without warning, lays down with his head in Q’s lap like one of the bloody cats. 

“I wasn’t going to puke all over your bathroom and leave it a mess, Q.” 

“Right…” Q trails off, hesitating before pulling his fingers through 007’s short hair, tracing where he’s gone silver at the temple. Bond hums. 

“You were right earlier, you know. About M.” 

Q pauses in his ministrations, subconsciously sucking in a breath. When he doesn’t answer, Bond continues. “She was like a mother to me. After mine… well, you know.” Bond swallows. “She took me in when no one else wanted her to. I never expected her to…” he takes a shaky breath, and his voice breaks like a million shards of glass when he finally says “leave.” 

“I know,” Q soothes. “It’s ok.” 

Bond makes a harsh sound in the back of his throat. 

“Is it?” He suddenly sits up, clenching his fists as he gets himself back under control. A single tear races its way down his cheek, getting lost in the lines around his mouth, now pressed into a hard line. 

“Maybe not right now, but it will be. Eventually.” Q leans almost imperceptibly closer to Bond, holding his breath. Bond stays impossibly still, eyes glittering in the dark.

Q gets close enough for Bond’s breath, sour with whiskey and vomit, to ghost over his cheek, before the double-oh pulls back, eyes darting away. 

“I should go,” Bond says abruptly. “Sorry.” 

“James—”

“007,” he corrects as he pulls his vomit-stained t-shirt back on with a wince. 

“I— alright,” Q says dazedly as Bond puts his jacket on, buttoning it up to his neck. “Are you ok to get home?”

“Fine. I’ll take a cab.”

“Do you want your whiskey?” Q asks as he hops up and trails after Bond. 

“All yours, Q.” Bond smiles briefly, though it doesn’t quite reach his ice blue eyes, before slipping out the door. As it swings closed, Q sees him smooth his jacket over the gun he sticks in the band of his trousers and pull out the pack of cigarettes. 

Q finishes the whiskey by himself. 

When he reports to work the next day, Mallory — _M_ — informs him that 007 is taking a couple weeks off. 

Q doesn’t see Bond again until he’s striding down from Mallory’s office, a folder clutched in one hand and a black box in the other. Q outfits him for the mission silently, doesn’t ask what’s in the box, though he has an idea. 

And as Bond turns to go, a new Walther safely tucked into his shoulder holster, he turns and smiles dazzlingly. 

“Thanks Q. Hope you enjoyed the whiskey. Sorry there wasn’t much left. Maybe I’ll bring another bottle over after I get home, to celebrate me bringing the equipment back intact.” 

Q smirks, taking the bait of an old, comforting routine.

“I wouldn’t bet on that if I were you, 007. When have you ever brought equipment back? Let alone in one piece?” 

Bond just shrugs, a playful smile lifting his lips. 

“I guess you’ll just have to wait and see, then. I can be a very good boy when I want to.” 

Then he’s gone, leaving Q a little breathless. 

And foolishly, Q thinks everything will go back to the way it was before. Maybe, he even thinks, it’ll be better. 

Oh how wrong he is. There’s a reason the double-ohs do all the gambling. 

**Author's Note:**

> Again my only goal? Make James suffer. 
> 
> When Q tries to call him James and he's like nope. Yeah, that hurt me to write. 
> 
> Self-isolation is boring as fuck so I'm attempting to pass the time. 
> 
> Leave comments, lmk what you thought! My tendency is to always make people _too_ emo so I really tried to makes James realistically emo lmao.


End file.
